


(in the ocean of sound) we'll live in slow motion

by despicableliz



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Coming of Age, Friends With Benefits, Gen, I really am, M/M, Slow Burn, also, and fake deep coming of age, im sorry about this whole mess, its all lowercase im sorry, thats what it is, there's a lot of melodrama, this is a love letter actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7764556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despicableliz/pseuds/despicableliz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he doesn't think about pogba the way he used to think about isco.</p><p>or alternatively: how alvaro morata gave his coming-of-age a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. like teenagers (still inside our parents' homes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlemagician (geckoseth)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=littlemagician+%28geckoseth%29).



> this is really self indulgent. and its a mess bc i just realized that when i write thinking im being all minimalistic n shit im really just writing like daniel handler did on his why we broke up book where he tries and mimics a super self aware teenager's line of thought. and it's a big ass letter, so.
> 
> also ive been literaly writing this its been more than a year or so i think? and im still not happy with but ???? theyre both gone now. i need closure. this is it :(
> 
> on top of it all, english isn't my first language. ops
> 
> im really not making a case for myself here am i
> 
> sorry
> 
> if youre still there ily and good luck
> 
> oh, quickie: fics title comes from doors unlocked and open by death cab for cutie and chapters title come from frank oceans sierra leone (the greatest love song from our generation)

when isco tells alvaro he's got his eyes set on both toni kroos and james rodriguez he promptly hangs up on him.

he categorically denies everything, of course, a few seconds later when isco calls back.

unfortunately, he doesn't buy it.

"sure, alvaro, whatever you say. anyway, what about your crush on pogba huh? did you make a move on him already?" and okay, there's not a single merciful bone on that boy's body.

alvaro hangs up again and this time the other doesn't call back.

since his ex-boyfriend, with whom alvaro is pretty sure he's still in love with, just told him he's gonna make a move onto not only one guy, but two, alvaro decides his day is officially ruined. he considers going out to buy some ice cream or maybe catch some late screening of a soapy movie all of which involve crying in a dark room because he is pathetic like that.

(oliver kind of slipped on their chat group that saul's way of dealing with his feelings was to punch some walls. by the way oliver is a vicious little thing hiding in a body of a lovely, curly creature he probably said that on purpose, on a calculated act of attack. saul left the group but, sadly, he wasn’t given the chance to recollect his dignity. they went and put him back on immediately. he was just made captain recently. they don’t have an ounce of respect, these boys.)

morata's way of dealing with his feelings involve nothing even near that much violence. punch some walls. how childish. he's very mature for a twenty two year old, it is know.

well, fuck that. he tries punching his bedroom door and it hurts like a motherfucker, honestly, so he takes a shower and texts pogba.

come over, pogba texts back, no questions asked.

alvaro might've not thought this trough properly.

when he bats at the door, there's mild panic making it's way out of his stomach and pogba shouldn't be this scary. he's a boy, younger than alvaro even. he's just a boy.

pogba answers the door and, well, no he isn't. he's a very irrationally beautiful boy that asks him what does he want to do even before he lets alvaro in the house.

alvaro is terrified, yes, and his knees may be toying with the idea of just giving up under the weight of paul's everything, but he is also completely out of the mood of chasing him in any of the three languages he speaks all of which none alvaro masters.

so. he kisses him. wet and open mouthed and all, one foot halfway in.

pogba opens the door further, and they don't speak much after that.

 

 

everything stays pretty much the same. pogba goes on with his day seeming unable to stay still in only one place but moving fast enough to never be at any place at all and alvaro is heartbroken.

and if pogba sometimes let alvaro inside of the joke he's always laughing about and alvaro stares at his hands, his back, his calfs, his mouth and pretty much everything else twice as much as he did before, well, it's not like any of them got someone at home anyway.

if anything, their teammates seem to caught up only with his bad mood, really.

claudio asks him how he's doing on the locker room, plaits in hand. pirlo tries to bump their shoulders when they're jogging (he fails, but it's a nice sentiment.)

fernando actually manages to wait until they're sitting together on an away trip to ask if he's ok, how is he dealing with stuff and morata tries his best to deadpan and asks how the hell does he even know shit but the best he can do is not to cry. fernando pats his shoulder, pretends he doesn't see the tears in his eyes and tells him for the millionth time about the world cup. alvaro drinks it all in and feels grateful for it.

 

 

he tries calling marc bartra because marc is the sweetest, the nicest, and apparently after alvaro, the most reasonable dude there is.

and he is, also, very much suffering of love too.

"it's supposed to hurt, alvaro. it means we're transcending it." he says, gravely.

"marc..." alvaro starts, but doesn't know what to say next. "marc, are you alright?"

"i will be. soon enough."

alvaro tries to gather up something to say, to conjure that brotherhood they all fell into three years ago, along with isco, sharing the only three bedded room of the long hallway. just something that will make both of them feel better.

"marc," he tries again, a smile creeping up the corners of his mouth. "tell me about nina."

 

 

he calls pogba from the pet shop.

"would you still sleep with me if i bought every single animal on this shop?" he says, on the verge of a breakdown.

"okay. we never slept together?" nice try, paul, but morata doesn't give an inch. he snorts instead. "right. maybe. we'll see." a sharp sigh goes through the line.

"what shop did you said you were again?"

he finds alvaro sitting on his hands at the back of the shop.

"mor— alvaro? are you ok?" he walks closer and crouches right beside him. "should i call fernando? should i call leonardo?"

"god, please, don't." alvaro turns around, alarmed, at the mention of bonucci. touches, unconsciously, pogba's knee, just the amount of skin thats peeking from ripped jeans. he's suddenly very aware of the mess he must be. "there's no need. it's just that. fuck. this was a terrible idea."

pogba looks around like he's just starting to understand where he's at and in what he's gotten himself into.

"yeah, man, tell me about it." he scratches the back of his head because, alvaro suspects, he's unsure of what to do with his hands.

"how can we live with ourselves if we don't buy them all? they need a home. we have to give them a home."

he receives a particularly long side eye after that, and ok, alvaro knows and he is sorry, but paul himself shouldn't be so quick to judge, when, an hour and a half later he exits the shop owner of an adorable black ball of fur that takes the form of a cat.

alvaro, for reasons he cannot explain, ends up with a dog and a turtle.

they make out on the dark garage for thirteen minutes straight until the point the animals get on the noisy side of restless.

alvaro jokes about calling the dog cristiano and the turtle ronaldo and pogba tells him without missing a beat that if it's a manchester united prodigy he's going after he has a middle name too, ok? alvaro can't tell if he's joking or not so he's quick to laugh it off and say he'll think about it.

the cat is alexander and alvaro can tell right away that there's a story there but doesn't press it, doesn't even ask.

 

 

marchisio buys him the biggest birthday cake he ever had, because that’s just something that he does, and then promptly allows pirlo and leonardo to topple it over his face, his thanks muffled by the frosting.

he facetimes maria with chantilly still all over his head and she smiles him the sweetest smile and isco sends him a screenshot of someone’s snapchat – it's a image of sugar sneaking into every single one of his facial orifices.

the mister doesn’t think it's funny though, so at least he gets to watch a bunch of seniors doing five extra laps like the shameless teenagers they still believe they are.

paul laughs like at them like he wouldn’t be involved on it if he wasn’t on medical duty at the time.

 

 

on international duty, la roja.

isco is excited, excited like when you take your friend to get his first tattoo when you already have ink all over your arm. in other words, he can't keep his mouth shut.

alvaro slows everything down, takes his time, sleeps early and won't stop wetting his own face for some reason like maybe, just maybe, this is a dream. he tries to keep his distance, his cool but isco always drifts back. no surprise there. he also keeps staring at his hands because even though he can feel it shaking everything's still on the surface. small mercies.

when he's just about to he gets his first national team cap next to his name, he texts pogba before he can talk himself out of it, asks for luck.

isco can't keep still on the tunnel and can't keep still on the pitch but toni kroos shoots a screamer and its not alvaro's job to prevent that from happening, it's not his weight to carry, it's no weight at all, actually, it's a friendly but. it's stings anyways and he suddenly hates fucking germans.

he gets out quickly, hit the showers when most of the guys hasn't even taken their shirts off.

there's a text on his phone. luck, it's all it says. he wishes.

 

 

isco absolutely crushes him by the door of their shared room. kisses his hair and the corner of his mouth. alvaro stops responding to his texts after that because he needs to stop wondering so much when isco takes too long to text back, he needs to stop hurting. 

he goes to paul’s instead, after practice, to play with his videogame and pet his cat.

(pogba is a terrific gamer, yes, but only when he sets his mind to it which results in him winning just a couple of times per day but always with a ridiculously high score number. it's unholy.  
when he's making fun of alvaro they both know that it's only for the sake of it.  
the one time alvaro tries to shit talk back he can't go much far from dissing his hair and even then he fumbles with the words on his mouth and paul laughs so hard he falls from the couch. they end up making out on the floor, so it's win/win, right?)

 

 

he doesn't think about pogba the way he thinks about isco.

isco is

never going home and isco is being home all the time. isco is that loud noise the cheap microphones make when people talk with them too close to the booster. isco is being high on sugar, after pratice, high on making each other laugh about stupid shit, too aware that soon this can't happen anymore, they have to watch their weight. isco is forgetting how's it like to go to sleep in complete silence. isco is getting your breath caught in the la decima night, looking at him under the stars and his eyes, his eyes, his shining eyes and all around hala madrid y nada mas. isco is the boy you never thought as beautiful, never had the chance, because you were getting kissed mid sentence and laughing into his mouth, too familiar, too easy, growing up in love with your best friend to be aware of anything more than that. the only thing that ever changed was the color of his jersey and the number of hotel rooms you shared. thinking back now, it's actually almost like he didn't used to think about isco at all. isco was sucking up all his breathing space.

 

 

the season goes on and the way he keeps seeing his name on the subs sheet is maybe familiar but also completely different. allegri has a less approachable face, yes, but he calls him by his first name and he makes alvaro feels important, he makes alvaro know he's important, and he makes everything in such a way that it's common knowledge that whatever promise the mister makes it's a promise the mister can keep. he just got here, but he's on his way to believing.

here's something alvaro always knew but never kept in mind: that if you want to grow in a club like real, or even barça, you're gonna start making money real quick, but you're not gonna be paid for playing – you're gonna be paid for waiting. and that's ok. that's ok, really, because they never lie to you. no, no, they say, hey, you should wait. they say, wait and it'll be one of the best damn things you'll ever do in your life. or maybe, maybe they do lie to you, cause –

alvaro sometimes dreams that he's on the bernabeu, starry night, full house. on those dreams he's always wearing white and he's always a prince. the crowd screams his name, go on then, go on morata, so he goes to the pitch and as he does he feels a weight on his shoulder, this warm weight embracing him, like a goddam royal cloak.

he's a prince, so it makes sense, and he goes along with it. he steps on the pitch and tries to run. that's usually when he wakes up. he wakes up and it's not just a dream. he wakes up and it was real, once, it was real.

he's not a real prince though, and that's fine, he's sick of waiting anyway.

when allegri signs him to move closer, from the bench, heart already racing up again cause he barely had time to sit from the warm up, and says, go on then, go on alvaro, and fernando is making his way out and saying something, something in spanish, so alvaro should probably understand the words, he should listen, but he can't, no, of course he can't, because they're screaming his name, they're howling chants, they're crying juuuuuveeeee.

the season goes on and alvaro runs, shouts instructions, shouts insults, shouts paul's, and carlos', and pirlo's names, gets tackled, tackles back and tackles back harder, gets yellow carded, gets red carded, hit the showers, mad, mad like he hasn't been in a long time, skin as hot as the water he forgot to turn down, but when he's back there's still no cloak, there's no extra weight, so he can run just that tiny bit harder, that tiny bit faster and. he scores.

 

 

christmas come just as fast and he flies his family in. there's an ache in his legs that says they're soon gonna be new legs and there's an ache on his face because he can't stop smiling and he's so absolutely delighted.

as soon as they settle in it feels like just about everybody came with the excuse that they've never been to italy before when in reality they just really want to tell everybody else that they travelled to italy. (his family is the kind of family that, during the festivities, will only really get out of the front of the tv to make quick trips to the kitchen or the bathroom.)

it takes them some time to notice that there's too much food and not enough rooms so he finds himself calling fernando. except fernando is at spain and sorry the lady always tells me to bring the spare key when i leave the country which makes no sense at all.

carlos' probably enjoying the nice weather down south america and the idea of spending a night at pirlos' house is terrifying. he's contemplating calling the boss, or sleeping with his dog, or just stop being a dramatic sack and checking in onto a hotel when paul texts him.

fernando just called, it says, i can come and get you when i leave patrice home, if you want.

and the things is, alvaro wants.

 

 

later, paul doesn't even leave his car and alvaro feels strangely like a teenage running away with his high school sweetheart. of course the mood is completely ruined by his mom waving goodbye by the doorstep and his cousins giggles following him out.

"hi." alvaro says, suddenly shy, all flushed and everything. it's been weeks since he felt like that.

paul just looks at him for a few moments, hands on the wheel.

"hey," he says slowly. "hi."

"thought you'd be in france by now." the car goes off at a low rate but there's this cold dread at the mouth of alvaro stomach, like they're on an roller coaster or something.

"yeah, i— i think i fought with my brothers? and mom preferred to spend the christmas with them,so. they're older and shit so they have kids for spoiling and all and it isn't a fair competition, really."

alvaro's throat almost closes up.

"are you... we're you..."

"nah, don't worry, i'm not going all home alone this christmas or anything like that. do you know evra have these two little girls that like all they ever want is an older brother? they got me! it was the best christmas ever, i don't need them, fuck them." his skin is really shiny, even more so under the moon and the street decorations. alvaro feels weird for noticing but he doesn't know if it's because he's noticing at all or if it's because he chooses this moment to do it.

"alright." alvaro doesn't look at him, can't look at him, while he makes the question. turin is all made of dark streets now, like she's trying something, like she's pulling strings. "are you, at any rate, possibly drunk?"

"no. noo. i mean. i drank a little bit of wine maybe? couldn't have been much, i have little sisters to set the example to now."

alvaro watches his hands, he's got a firm grip, a firm grip but –

"right. pull over."

surprisingly, paul does it without further discussion and morata knows the way by heart.

in his defense, he isn't really drunk. he doesn't even sway when he steps. he just can't seem to shut up. it's uncharacteristic, terribly endearing and a bit worrying.

when alvaro comes out of the bathroom wearing his brand new set of pajamas (his oldest raul's jersey in which he usually sleeps are hidden in the deepest part of closet so his mom won't turn it into a cloth because she doesn't seem to grasp how priceless it is), toothbrush on the back of his pocket, paul actually snickers.

alvaro looks at him and it's unbelievable that he just went through one of the most tenses car rides of his life because it's almost like all of his sharp edges are gone.

maybe he is drunk, after all. maybe he just does it differently than everybody else as usual.

they end up sleeping on the living room, one in which sofa, with the lights from the tiny three illuminating their faces.

 

 

in the morning, alvaro finds paul looking intently at his phone sitting strangely grave at the kitchen table.

"they're coming to see me on the new year's eve, my parents. they're fucking up my plans to party all night but. they're coming."

paul looks up at him and smile with all his front teeth, but it's weird, it's off, like he's daring alvaro to do or say something.

alvaro sort of just hums, even though he wants to do so much more, even though he's pretty sure he can't keep himself from smiling back for too long, because he knows the feeling of having said too much and it's nice, you know, not being the only one.

he walks closer, pull a chair, doesn't sit down. chooses the way out.

"my mom will probably make me come back here if don't ask you this right now so here I go: wanna get breakfast with us? please say no. we have lots of food which is nice, but also lots of martins and lots of moratas, which i mean. i have no control over."

paul grins at him and alvaro can pinpoint the exact moment it turns from relieved to wicked, the soft spots giving space away for the sharp edges to settle themselves back again.

"can't see why not."

 

 

two days later at the airport his mom is pretty sure she's going for subtle when she takes him by the arm e and put a distance between them and their family.

alvaro knows what's coming and yet he can't help but stir when she says, "is that boy, that boy you brought home, is him your boyfriend?".

he decides to go with the truth.

"no, mom, he really isn't."

"oh, alvaro, i was so hopeful. you never bring anyone home, son, and i'm—" she sounds honestly distressed that alvaro starts to soothingly rub her arms.

"what are you talking about, mom, isco was there all the time? remember isco? you used to—".

"please. isco wasn't a boyfriend of yours, he was an adopted son of mine."

alvaro has to drag his next few words out of his own mouth.

"i think i'm actually disgusted."

"my point is," she raises her voice like the good mother she is with the ancient tricks those have, "if isco never came home with you, you wouldn't be home at all, so where's the fun in that? there was never that anxious dinner, sweaty palms, talk with your father with closed doors thingy, all that essential stuff, you know?"

"right."

"don't be like that." she's actually anxiously scraping her hands and alvaro can't believe his own mother. how alike they are.

"i'm not being anything."

"alvaro."

"mom."

"alvaro." suddenly, very suddenly he gets the distinct feeling she's actually having fun with this and everything else is just an act. he wouldn't put it above her.

"ok, mom, damnit, but he still isn't my boyfriend, jesus, can't you just let it go?"

"watch your mouth, boy, and don't say the lord's name like that. but... just... keep it in mind, ok? you're so young. and i want grandchildren."

"oh my god. whats does it even have to do with anything? I'm twenty-two!"

she smiles at him and he loves her so much.

"you're unbelievable."

"anyway, that boy is not half bad, a bit shy at first, but we all liked him very much."

alvaro pictures his instagram feed filled with paul's amused expressions surrounded by his family smiling faces and feels the need to suppress a smile of his own.

"right," he agrees, defeated. "i'm going to pass on your message as soon as possible."

"you do that. c'mon, lets go back, they might've start worrying about us." knowing his family, they didn't even notice, they're all very dramatic and tend to get lost in their own thing. he follows her anyways. wouldn't have it any other way.

 

 

he doesn't pass his mother's message after all, but it's almost like he did.

he can't quite put his finger on it but paul starts running with his dog in the mornings and won't let him go with them like it's bonding time, and alexander the cat now tends to follow alvaro around just as soon as he smells his scent, and they bet on which one will get on the training center faster these days because they're scared of what pirlo or even martin might do if they ever get there together, and alvaro doesn't even text paul when he goes to his house anymore cause he's there pretty much every day now, and when he isn't it does takes paul a few more hours to show up but he's at alvaro's by dinner time tops and alvaro is slowly extending his culinary skills because this is it, he's growing up, he's growing while paul's on the other room making noises at his turtle, but he is nonetheless and their kissing thing gets fewer and fewer in between but it's nice in a new way, it's like they're walking it backwards, going from something else to friends when everybody else is doing the reverse way.

and, yeah, paul still lunches with the french clique, and, yeah, when he gets to choose he pairs up with arturo and, yeah, when he goes out it's with fernando in tow and alvaro lives off of any speaking spanish person available to pay any attention to that, and yeah, he hangs off the hip of claudio and leonardo because they're practically married and remind him of iker and sergio whom he miss so much, enough to name his pets after them, even if he pretends it's a pratical joke, and, yeah, the b team lads tends to orbit towards him which makes him both confused and amused and pathetically found and old, and anyway, it's nothing like before. it's like the world shifted just a bit to the left and they're walking the same streets with the angles all wrong.

it's not like no one knows they're actually close, because yes, they are friends, and when alvaro morata and paul pogba share a joke or two in training, no one bats an eyelash.

 

 

he isn't talking to isco and he's pretty sure marc bartra is in love with neymar so he doesn't have anyone to explain to him why does he feel anxious, why does he feel like he's waiting for something and why he feels like he has to delete the photo he took of paul and sergio when he followed then that one day but can't bring himself to do it.  
the real iker casillas or even the real sergio ramos might’ve have some answers, but iker, the turtle likes to tuck himself on dark, unreachable spots and only show up when there's either lettuces or pogba involved and sergio, the dog even shows a bit of intelligence behind those eyes of his but unfortunately he only knows how to bark his thoughts out.

 

 

going out with them is a nightmare and, like in most dreams, alvaro can't quite remember how he got there in the first place.

in the other hand, king and fernando seem right at home, holding both arms up the air and paul and arturo are laughing about something in each other's ears. pereyra is almost immediately surrounded by tall, giggling girls. they've just won hellas verona with large gap of 10-1 on the aggregated with a three days and alvaro feels like he deserves one drink. or five.

it feels like half of the night has gone by with the way paul has made his way through every section of the dance floor at least two times when king finds him.

alvaro is maybe three drinks into his limit so doesn't bother with looking the other way. he does looks at king, eventually, but there's no rush.

the french striker is grinning at him with every single one of his teeth. alvaro has been blinded by that sight already, but always in second hand since it was never directed at him.

so when king says, soooo what's up with you two? he isn't even pretending much when acts like he doesn't know what he's talking about.

"i'm talking about his dick up yo ass. or is the contrary? don't get me wrong, i don't make my business to know how my friends like their men, but, like, I just know, and pogba is a difficult man to read so i've been wondering—" he's spilling beer all over his own arm.

"shut the fuck, king, i haven't even seen his dick properly."

shit, he thinks.

"shit," he says.

king is actually gaping at him. he's like the youngest of the squad, but he is own the squad, he's not a child, he shouldn't be able to do that.

"i did not just told you that." alvaro says, with all the confidence of a drunk man.

"oh, but you did?" king's still gaping.

"i did not. i don't even who you're talking about. who is paul pogba, honestly." alvaro needs to have another drink and then he needs to die.

"no, but, alvaro" alvaro hate for germans just an addition - he hates frenchs too. "i am truly shocked. let me tell you something." he drags his body across the booth until his pressing himself to alvaro's side. "i used to share the apartment with paul."

alvaro just gives him a look.

"ok, i used to share part time the apartment with paul i mean he has a much nicer apartment and lives alone so why shouldn't i? anyway, enough of me, did you also knew that paul's apartment used to be patrice save haven? he used to go there when hannah montana or whatever got too much. and fernando? fernando had his own set of keys, the fucker. and now you've just told me that he trades all of this, he broke the d'artagnan and the three musketeers company, to a dame that won't give him any sweet?"

it must be the blue light dancing on his face and his french accent slipping more with every passing minute. it must be that. he just looks so dramatically heartbroken.

"what the fuck, really, what the fuck." alvaro spits. "i don't think you ever spoken properly to me and now you're being all french and shit. i am going home." alvaro hopes he successfully managed to say at least a third of all that.

"don't go, please. it’s just. pogba never dates? at least, nothing serious, his momma won't let him or something, but if he spends all of his hours with you and you're not even fucking, what is it? is he politely trying to tell me to fuck off? am i not his best bro anymore?"

shit, alvaro thinks. again.

"shit," he says. again. "okay, right, we sometimes kiss and shit? but. we've never done it. and. we're not serious. we just. i just." king is looking at him with so much intent that alvaro feels trapped. "i'm in love with my ex-boyfriend and all, so there." he winces again. it feels like a lie; why does it feel like a lie? he loves isco. he fucking loves isco, he does. he wishes he didn't.

"does paul knows it?"

"we don't talk about those kind of stuff."

"of course you don't." he looks offended. "well. if you don't want him, then give him back."

"fuck off?"

"i'd say fuck you but you just told me that's not on the plate." he starts snickering to himself. they're drunk. they should go home. this is ridiculous.

"fuck off?" alvaro feels the need to repeat. he eventually manages to stands up and to leave and he's proud of himself cause paul only caught up with him when he's already turning around the corner, hand raised in the air for a taxi.

"hey, hey, hey, i'm sober, i'm sober." he says it as his hands make their way to alvaro's waist and alvaro, alvaro tries not to react, he tries not find it unnervingly intimated, alvaro tries not to shiver. "i can take you home."

alvaro wants to say no, thank you. he says please instead.

 

 

they fuck for the first time at 5 am, because alvaro sobers up pretty quickly and because the cold morning lights streaming into alvaro's room makes it just so that they can only see each other's faces and hands.

paul is being so, so careful. it tickles alvaro because the only thing that comes to mind when he associates careful with sex is fumbling hands, cum in his pants and isco big nervous smile giving space to his big nervous eyes because both couldn't fit on his face. paul is being careful in a very different, intense way. paul is acting like he's on the pitch. alvaro tries his best to keep his eyes open, he wants to see, he deserves to see. ends up biting his lips until he tastes blood.

the younger boy doesn't stay, after it. alvaro tries to find iker but gives up after twenty-three minutes, tries going back to bed, and later still tries to talk jesé into a fifa contest. he sleeps earlier. paul doesn't show up for the rest of the week, neither he does in the next one.

alvaro sleeps with sergio, not because he misses sleeping next to someone because, well duh, he doesn't but because he loves an excuse to indulge himself, and iker seems to be trying a passive agressive attitude showing his face only to stuff it with his food. alvaro also starts to go into club grounds at strange hours – even more strange is the fact that pirlo seems to always be there and soon alvaro has to come up with excuses on why he can't play fifa right now, and also, he rarely cooks dinner anymore cause he accepts every single invitation he gets so he's starts to be familiar with turin's cuisine from the wealthy restaurants downtown, finally gets a taste of the famous south america barbeque and soon becomes attached to angelo ogbonna's mother's rice, and there's also luca marrone, with whom he starts to alternating lift duties because they live close and why not? it's nice to have someone mixing up your radio settings sometimes.

he hasn't lived the routine of going to bed so stupidly early, legs aching every single night, for such a long period since la castilla.

 

 

training is something else. he plays pretend just out of the box, dead weight. paul looks up, only once, dribbles and sends the ball his away.  
alvaro slots it in one, three, five times and allegri nods, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth; paul nods to himself, satisfied, but keeps his head down and himself out of the way; alvaro is treated like a kid by the rest of them like he used to be once when mourinho would allow him to train with the first team.

 

 

it scares him to death those moments in which he sees himself with clarity and detachment — how fast he did build a routine around the french prodigy, how far he let the things go and how much he misses it. he thinks about buying a cat and ending it all with it in one go. but he still doesn't know why it was named alexander and that, for some reason, seems to ruin it.

 

 

the thing is, the hard thing is, he doesn't think about pogba the way he used to think about isco.

pogba is

being thirty minutes away from home when your curfew is just five minutes away. pogba is beautiful — high, sharp cheekbones, lean-tall-body, plush-full-lips, dark-dark-skin in contrast with his white-pearly-smile and even his weird and yellow haircut seem to be unable to stop alvaro's hands to want, alvaro's eyes to want, alvaro's whole body and being to want. alvaro's pretty sure these days that they both buy the same soup because he feels like he's waking up with his smell,

it's like he's waking up tired,

it's like paul's invading his dreams and making alvaro run after him.

 

 

they play milan and alvaro feels exhilarated, feels grounded once again.

he says, in italian, we had to show them that we are juve. he feels entitled to say that. he feels part of the we.

gigi smiles at him. gigi smiles at him like he's delighted to hear it and pushes him into the bus.

alvaro is, too. maybe even more so.

 

 

champions league comes back again almost like out of nowhere and it feels good. the boss sits him on the game before so he knows what's coming, he can feel it on his bones, yet he feels so big, he feels too much, he feels ten feet tall.

he takes a moment to understand how big this is, he's being preserved.

when the time comes he assists carlitos first goal and he feels so much love he's a bit overwhelmed.

they watch chiellini and bonucci comically and pitifully give borussia the equalizer, but they're alive, they're alive.

in the locker room the mister screams like he ever does (if it's because the blood is pumping in his ears or because the screams from the crowd just behind him for forty-five minutes are difficult to say), but his words are not even close to the harshness of his tone.

it's within the reach of your hands, ragazzi, he clamors, just stretch a little more.

then he gathers his midfielders around him and fires up in a italian so fast that alvaro can't decode whatever it is that he wants from them. paul looks up, directly at him, for a split second, before hangs his head down and nods to the mister.

he does it again out there on the pitch — with one look, he sees everything. puts the ball in alvaro's head. juventus 2-1.

he assisted carlitos goal ad felt so overwhelmed by love that now, now he might actually burst.

he runs, screaming, what the hell is he screaming he doesn't have an idea and paul is right there screaming back at him and it's so much, so much that's enough and even if they're still not there yet, even if they're still scared to touch, it's like something shifts a bit to the right, something unblocks, and they're free to come into place again.

it's like the very own turin night it's asking what are they thinking?, what are they even thinking, if they still have this they might as well have everything.

 

 

they don't have it easy on the next few days. roma is tough, is demanding. keita scores a header and alvaro lets himself be washed by the old familiar feeling of raging over culés. they lose to viola in their own goddam home and that makes the mister goes ballistic because coppa italia was the goal all along, more important than both the domestic league, an obligation at this point, and the champions league, the dream they're chasing.

at least they win the next two serie a games, but it leaves a strange and honestly kind of sore tastes on their mouths the scanty scoreboards — pogba goes to the net against sassuolo and alvaro shot makes his way through the keeper against palermo and that's it.

keep your feet on the ground, it’s like a warning, so when paul’s birthday comes around he tries his best to pretend he isn’t giving a party – he flies his closest friends in and calls it an intimate gathering.

in his defense, at least it really mimics one. the only source of alcohol available is wine, the stupidly expensive kind, and the finger food isn’t too elaborated even though he brought it from that exclusive restaurant downtown that usually doesn’t even attend delivery requests. except, there’s so many people on the house that alvaro only sees him properly and gets to exchange more than three words with him when he’s leaving, five hours into the party.

paul demands to go with him. he isn’t drunk, but his breath smells of sour grapes and he touches alvaro’s neck. alvaro's been here before. this is the interlude, then.

every story has its chapter on the desert, and on this one, their desert meets.

alvaro buys him a chocolate cupcake from the closest 24-hour bakery because what the hell, right? he sings "happy birthday to you" under his breath and paul smiles, but doesn’t say a word. at this point they’re not anything, they’re not even nothing, and out of respect for their unresolved feelings and the desert they find themselves, it’s a quiet, serene deal.

when he drops paul off back at his house, he’s pretty sure no one noticed they were gone.

 

 

anyways, it all comes crumbling down a few days later.

keep your feet on the ground, it was warning, and they did try their best, you know, keep humble, despite the travel to dortmund coming together all dreamlike.

carlos is inspired, unstoppable, massive but he lets alvaro have his own and it's a beautiful night, they're black and white in a sea of black and yellow but it doesn't matter, they bring home in their own skin and the bianconeri once almost swallowed now are huge. when alvaro looks up, it's all he can see.

until.

until the one with the 6 on his back falls to the ground. the litter comes in and his tears come out and it's ugly, and—

the next minutes, the ones the mister take to sub alvaro off, are pure agony. he says good job, boy, as always, but alvaro can't tell for sure because he's looking at paul, sitting on the bench. he allows himself to be pleased, even if just a bit, on the parts of himself that aren't filled with worry.

he sits by his side but can't bring himself to say anything. the gesture of coming back to the bench is just as clear as the expression he wears on his face and while one says he wants to stick with his team, the other say don’t even look at me.

alvaro brings on his best casual self and bumps his hand on paul's hand. it takes too long for him to bump it back, long enough for alvaro's flush go all the way down his jersey and he feels like crawling right of his shelf, but he does it so. breath in. it's ok. it'll be okay.

 

 

two days later, after practice, the french boy shows up on his doorstep. alvaro quite literally had barely stepped out of his car — he was gathering the shoes he just kicked when he heard the doorbell ringing.

paul was right there, supporting his weight on crutches and alvaro is kinda pissed off.

"what?" he asks, doesn't giving an inch. he's sweaty and smelly and paul is anything but with his black leather jacket and expensive perfume. the first time they kissed was in a doorstep, just like this. parallels, his mind helpfully supplies. alvaro wants to shut the door on his face just because.

"what?" he asks right back, the little shit. alvaro just raises an eyebrow because really. he's not in the mood. "i just— i don't know. just wanted to see my boys."

that strikes all the words straight out of alvaro for a few seconds.

"i was going to suggest you to politely screw yourself but you know what? now i'm just going to take my deserved shower."

paul takes off his jacket as he steps in. he fits, somehow, against the colored walls. it's awful. "yeah, what about that anyway?"

"pirlo was uncharacteristically quiet and twice as shady today and all that stealth can only mean he's got something big coming, i'll tell you that. i got out and saved my ass, man."

as soon as he finishes talking an awkward silence settles really quick. awkward for him, anyway, paul looks at peace with himself just staring back. alvaro is suddenly highly aware of everything, aware of pointless things, aware of how paul's chest go up and down on the other side of the room, how being out and about probably wasn't good for his health and how his own steam was fading and fading fast.

"sergio is at the back," alvaro says, walking backwards, filling up the air as he goes. "and iker... i don't have a motherfucking clue. but i honestly hope they don't talk to you."

"alvaro, you truly wound me. i came here actually limping just so i could seek advice with your magic talking animals."

alvaro takes off his shirt in the middle of the hallway just so he has something to do with his hands and immediately regrets; he quickly inside the fortress of his room though, and even if laughter follows him inside, the owner himself coming through those doors again is a very unlikely event.

alvaro hadn't made such an effort to not touch himself while under the water since he was fourteen. except, then he was rarely successful and now he's strong enough to not even so much as look at his dick. life achievements.

of course, of course that when he comes back iker is happily biting lettuce off of paul's hand from the armrest and sergio is all over his other side claiming whatever attention he has to spare.

ungrateful cheaters, the whole lot of them.

alvaro tries to sit there and pretend he doesn't mind, but as soon as paul's directs his shiny grin, overbearingly smug, at him it all comes the fuck down.

"it's better if you don't come around here much, you know, cause your leg. you should rest." he says, not doing much but trying his best to conceal his petty self.

paul pogba sees right through it.

"so you'll bring them to mine's, yeah?"

alvaro swallows.

"yeah."

 

 

it couldn't possibly take just this much for them to become them again.

but, on its own way, yes, it does.

alvaro does go to paul's house, after all, three days later and he even considers going through the hassle it will be to bring sergio with him but he miraculously cross paths with iker on his way out and picks him up instead.

he finds himself sitting on the armrest nursing a can of pepsi and waiting for a strategic moment to steal someone's joystick, listening to king and paul's french back and forth until fernando shushes them up with iker and alexander at his feet.

they're never alone anymore, and they text a lot, which is new, but the sappy smiles across the room thingy they end up nurturing isn't so bad.

it's nice, and warm, and innocent, even though he spends just about the same amount at time alone he did before, his home isn't scary anymore. it's like the ghost became someone again.

 

 

juve swallows fiorentina but alvaro, for all the hot blooded spaniard part he got down, is having trouble swallowing his red card.

less than four hours later paul pogba is laughing at his face.

"honestly?" alvaro asks him, hopeless.

"honestly." the house is fairly quiet and alvaro isn't used to that outside his own anymore. paul's grin is filling the space but not quiet. his crutches do a better job. "wanna see it?"

alvaro rolls his eyes and sinks further on the couch.

"sure, i've made all the way here just to see it for myself, i thought i said it on the phone?" he says and then carefully pretends that it doesn't bother him, seeing himself like this.

but then.

then he sees just how much pado is outraged and just how helpless was the smile arturo gave him when he touched his face. a tiny leo bonucci pushes him back just to go all up the ref's face himself and claudio gently guides him off the pitch with a hand on his back.

he didn't remember it like that. he couldn't possibly remember it like that.

he won't play the final, and there's fire spreading on his chest, but it's a completely different fire than alvaro expected.

 

 

monaco comes and goes in a rush. the second leg is a nightmare outside the pitch.

arturo is burning inside his skin but he tries to run on the pitch like he wants to set himself free from it. alvaro pukes his ribs out and it's so disgusting that he's sure carlos only doesn't do the same with power of will. that and the fact that he doesn't actually see anything, dizzy as he, keeping his eyes closed the entire match.

the bench was never, never quite this bad.

paul travels back with them until someone rushes him back to his seat saying they don't need to get sick on top of it all, goddamit.

forza juve, to the semis.

 

 

they draw real madrid and alvaro feels even sicker.

 

 

maria asked him to go to paris two weeks prior, to catch up, and he said yes, of course, he did, he misses her just as he misses his favorite pizza place, two blocks away from his old apartment in madrid. but now, well, now he doesn't feel like stepping out of his house, and he sure don't want to go france.

not when in less than a week he's due to national team business and the squad, his squad, los blancos will all be there, closer than ever, more distant from him than ever.

he can see it already— isco'll crack an inside joke on the table and he'll burst into tears.

he hovers around his house, barefoot and sleepless, trying to think of something to say that actually sounds reasonable. she sees right through him, of course, and he doesn't stand a chance.

he texts the place where will he be leaving the keys to martin. (they did a whole el clasico spectacle on fifa a few weeks earlier and damn right madrid won 4-2 and alvaro missed it so much that he couldn't think of asking something beyond dog sitting at the time.)

paris is paris. he's not sure what he expected.

he and maria play pretend the whole weekend, walking hand in hand, taking goofy pictures, buying stupidly expensive stuff to each other, dining at candlelit restaurants and even trying to share a bed (that worked alright until alvaro got a painful reminder of how hard exactly can she kick. and he's the footballer.)

on the day due for them to catch their flights they don't even pretend to get out of the bed and enjoy paris for a bit longer.

maria jumps out of her sheets just to crawl up all over alvaro's bed — yes, they did get another room with two beds because alvaro is an adult athlete and has to take care of his body, ok? — and doesn't say anything. alvaro knows this, knows her, he knows the way she works him out and yet he can't help but fall right into it and blurs all of his growing pains out.

she says alvarito and its almost like she stole all the light and guarded it in plain sight, right in the middle of her eyes, and alvaro holds his breath, because he knows this too, knows her.

"you're such a drama queen," there's laughter just behind her voice.

"what?" he croaks out.

"you heard me, alvaro. stop acting like you're gonna have to leave us all behind. can't you see it? you already did, love."

alvaro feels like she slapped him in the face. which actually happened, once. this may be worse.

"don't look at me like that, please it's just—" she sits on the bed and kinda drags him with her until they're both sitting on top of their feet, just the way they used to do when they were twelve and his mother used to say they were gonna get married, before isco, before he had all those reasons not to talk to her everyday anymore.

"i never told you, but i went to turin, like, two months ago? i was just so happy in my number 9 jersey and it was so nice because i wasn't the only one? had such a kick out of it. you're so loved alvaro, it's amazing, you have to know that. you have to. they don't even ask anything in return. i mean, they just ask you to love them back, and that's how i know that you know, because you do, don't you? you do love them back."

alvaro stares at her, numbly, until she nudges him with her toe.

"yeah. yeah, i do. of course i do, turin is—" so much, he wants to continue, so much, that he's stop dead short, frightened to death of getting ahead of myself.  
"so. madrid doesn't want you, fucking big deal. you're gonna go full teenage drama on then. you're gonna become the hot girl and make them want you back, ok? i promise."

alvaro nods until what she says actually sinks down.

"you're ridiculous."

"of course i am, but so are you, dude. you're a twenty-two-year-old living off of teenage angst." she smiles, the one smile that turns everything harmless. she has another one that does just the contrary. alvaro is amazed that an ugly ass, stupid boy like him managed to break her heart once. it's not natural. "and also, a long ass crush apparently, from the info i got..."

"what you going on about?" alvaro asks distractedly, kicking his feet out of bed and dragging his ass to shower.

"someone called real early saturday morning and you almost fell out if the balcony in your hurry to get there, so me and isco got to talking and—"

"you and isco got to what?!" he is halfway out of the bathroom and a little breathless.

"and i gathered there's a few things you've been keeping from me, darling. and as it happens, from isco himself too and you should know that he's quite hurt by that and promised me he would do to your face what you did to his heart."

"i honestly— i can't even begin to try and understand what you're talking about."

"really," she says flatly, narrowing her yes. "so who was it then? isco spilled some names. it begins with a p…"  
alvaro winces.

"yes, ok, it was paul pogba on the phone. he was bitching about my pets being alone, and i was kindly trying to explain to him that they are indeed mine, not ours, and that they're not alone. and then he kind of hung up on me and went to get them? i mean who does that? he's awful? and why are you still looking at me like that?"

"this is just my i'm-trying-to-figure-it-out -if-you're-really-this-dumb face. you don't like it? then go take your shower. it may take a while to fade."

"i hate you."

"right back at you, doll."

 

 

the first breakfast back with la roja he goes for the madrid table but double takes when iker gives him the eye.

"look who's here to listen to our secrets and sell them to the enemy."

alvaro considers his options.

"everything i had stored was passed along long ago, old man, things like what knee is more prone to give pepe trouble and in what eye you have the worst sight. sorry, it was on my contract."

iker doesn't miss a beat.

"good, cause i told sese here to teach rapha and toni that mean takle of his and i wouldn’t want anything to happen to an innocent little boy."

alvaro absolutely beams at him and ikers lips twitches up.

"i missed you guys" he says as he sits next to dani. he receives a mumbled and wet and irregular we missed you too from around the table.

isco grins right back, even while he mouths “we're soooo talking later".

nothing's changed.

 

 

when later comes around, isco lays down on marc's bed and stares at him. alvaro knows it's marc's bed because it's gracefully arranged while isco sure bothered to straighten his sheet at least once on his life, but never on a hotel room. that aside, alvaro's best friends are terribly similar.

"spit it out." isco whines, when it's clear alvaro doesn't know what or how exactly he should approach whatever conversation they're about to have. "what's up with you anyway, man? you've been ignoring me and i'm pretty sure i didn't offend anyone this time around."

"shit." alvaro says, quite eloquently. he sits beside isco, on the bed, careful not to touch like it means something. "shit, isco, i don't know?"

isco looks at him at bit more and clicks his tongue. "whatever it is, just say it. we, sir, don't have time for that, i think i might drive marc crazy and iker would actually cross the line and kill me if i ever did that. he's super protective of his defenders even if they're culés, you know that, and–"

“stop saying the culés like that, it’s actually embarrassing coming out of your mouth, we used to laugh about it behind your back.” isco mouths forms a round “o” making him look like a fish. alvaro is stalling. “also, i don't think i'm in love with you anymore." he pushes it out, and promptly hides his face on his hands.

isco laughs, and stretches, his feet suddenly all over alvaro's lap.

"yeah, and what else?"

"what do you mean what else, isco, there's nothing else. i'm really –"

"i meant that I knew that already, alvaro, so now you can stop bullshiting me and say what's crawling up your ass. i'm your best fucking friend, jesus."

"isco, how–" alvaro stops, breathes through his nose. isco's socks don't smell yet, so they're probably new. "how could you possibly know that if i'm pretty sure i just realized it myself? i mean. i know we broke up and everything but i'm the complete opposite of subtle. i was bleeding all over, man."

"dude, you're such a drama queen." the smile on his face falters, a lil bit.

"isco," alvaro says it again just because he can't stop talking and embarrassing himself. he hasn't felt this exposed in front of isco in such a long time meaning never. "i'm not in love with you anymore and but it feels like i've been in love with you for since like forever and i didn't know how like. how not to be in love, i guess. it got kind scary and i'm sorry, it's just that–"

"don't freak out on me." isco says and alvaro doesn't give a shit because they're hugging and he finally finds on himself to shut the fuck up. isco smells like home in a way not even his old bedroom, barely untouched, on his mother’s house does.

they stay like that for a while. it's nice, it's the nicest, and alvaro breathes in and out, and isco breathes against him and alvaro is reminded, suddenly, that they're never left each other behind, they never went out of each other's sight and it's the most comforting thought he's had in months.

"is it ok if i'm love with someone else though?" he asks, voice sneaking around his laughter, and isco's hair.

"you're such a dick, oh my god." isco squeezes him one last time before letting him go. "i also know that, you little shit, i know everything since forever. or as soon as i coaxed rapha out of his blushing mess, anyway, so you better watch out."

"i can't believe a word you just said. i refuse to. you know shit."

isco just gives him a lopsided grin and gets up. alvaro resists as long as he can.

"what did rapha said?"

isco takes his time collecting all the stuff he managed to lose under his bed already in like half a day.

"apparently he and your boy used to be roomies? attached to the hip and all that jazz so. paul still texts for advices like all the time."

"i don't really wanna know, do i?"

isco hums in that annoying way of his. "i think you do."

"nah, i don't think so." alvaro says, even though there's something jumping up and down inside his ribcages.

"ok, whatever, it's your loss anyways, it's not like i was really going to say anything so. knowledge is power, it seems."

"i hate you." alvaro says, but stands up to take one of his bags anyway.

"funny that, maria said you told her the very the same thing. now let's find marc and tell him i'm moving. who you're with?"

"jordi."

"oh man, i should've think of that. i was keen marc would spill me shit about messi but all he could talk about was neymar? i'm disgusted. and also a bit concerned. i think we should help."

alvaro laughs, feeling stupidly relieved, and closes the door behind them.

 

 

when the ball hits the back of the net, he forgets his own god damn name.

here's the things he does remember:

he's 22 years old and he's here,

but he's also 12 years old and with the 7 on his back his name is raul, every kid on the block hating it when they don't get him on their team,

and he's 15 too, all over again, and the 7 means villa, rage as red as la furia's kit, pushing it further and further, through the euro's playoffs and and through real madrid's castilla,

and then he's 18, a bit too old to say it out loud, but the di stefano stadium hold its own supporters and he, flying high, it's their own ronaldo.

isco slaps him on the head.

"alvaro, you with me?" he's shouting, even though they're close. and there it is, his name.

"yeah," alvaro breathes out, a bit quieter, the bits and pieces of himself coming back together.

isco grins walks him through it.

"look at what you did, man. look at what you did."

 

 

in light of all that, april is uneventful.

his turtle moves out semi permanently and alvaro curses over it every time he steps on its forgotten bowl cause paul apparently bought a new, shinier one and what the fuck, weren't animals supposed to be incorruptible?

he feels giddy about something he can't track down and pinpoint and his mobile account comes with a ridiculous set of numbers because he can't stop ringing maria.

april is the calm before the storm.

 

 

they win the domestic league early may and the mister makes himself be heard when he promises that there will be pain the next day regardless of how much they drink but there's a smile twisting his mouth upwards.

they make a bianconeri mess out of an unfamiliar lockeroom, what with alvaro jumping at any pair of arms that get close enough and tevez, that should be annoyed by now, getting kissed all over by any mouth that gets close enough.

it's hard to tell who's stickier, fernando or pirlo, but rather soon it doesn't really matter, all of them soaked to the bone in a disgusting, but satisfying mix of sweat and champagne.

gigi starts singing a terribly off-key version of an old juve chant onto a phone that starts being passed around the group, making up for an odd, terrible and smiling choir. despite the fact that the cellphone never really made it's over to alvaro's hand, he's pretty sure it was paul, since the song was his favorite.


	2. i love these roads where the houses don’t change (and i like you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cant believe its done and its here. 
> 
> i dont even think ive ever felt the taste of closure quite like this. 
> 
> ((title from lorde's 400 lux.))

isco calls him as soon as the plane touches down, it seems. 

“stop trying to sabotage us, i need my sleep.” he complains, mouth full of his own pillow. he gets up anyway and go about his day while still not fully awake. 

he feels a bit out of it, but it’s hilarious, how everybody makes a point of no commenting on it. he bumps into marco on training and not only does he jump three feet on air he also doesn’t ask why is alvaro training with the goalkeepers. 

and so it goes. 

it goes until he scores on iker, a day later.

if he’s honest with himself he doesn’t know exactly how it came to be, couldn’t narrate it to anyone that asked, just that the ball was suddenly at his feet and the goal was right there and then he just didn’t know what to do with himself. 

he’s waking up to a reality in which he just scored against real madrid and god, how could that be? and he’s happy, he’s so overwhelmingly happy and he can’t breathe. mostly because he’s being crushed by nine grown men, but you know. it’s not like that it’s a new thing by now. he could break his arms around the ones he loves right now and wouldn’t even feel it. 

he’s here, they’re here, and they’re going places. 

 

 

“i’m not going to ask, ok? i won’t.” 

isco grins at him, his teeth the only thing alvaro can discern properly before letting him in. 

“it is a nice story, though.” 

the tiles are cold under alvaro’s feet and suddenly he’s wide awake. he hates isco so much. 

“i’m sure. carlo ancelotti just lost a champions league game and still indulge his players.”

“aw, man, no need to be an asshole about it. you’re goal wasn’t even that great.”

alvaro’s face is already bending outta shape. he can’t stop smiling, can he? 

“get outta here. my goal was the best.” but his best friend isn’t even paying attention to him anymore, going through his shit sitting on sofa. 

he’s got all of his things with him so it means he’s not even going back to the hotel. there’s a party, several parties at that, in which people are still buzzing about what he did today but look at him. he’s stuck with the same boy as ever. still a loser. 

“anyways, you’re not sleeping with me.” 

isco shrugs like he knows about the room with two beds and that’s the end of it.

 

 

alvaro sleeps the whole way to madrid, and then some more on the way to the hotel. 

there's nothing new to see here. 

the team is cool, quiet, standing a bit too close even if the wind isn't that cold these days, almost if the tension is pressing them together. 

spain greets them with a sunny day, so the grass is shining under their feet and it's all around perfect for everybody to show off their newest shades. alvaro is grateful. paul is still at least five days away from a full game, but he's here, on alvaro's own santigo bernabeu, coming up with all the excuses to touch that alvaro's been failing to conceive in the last weeks. 

he considers going back to sleep on the ride back, because he knows madrid like he knows his twenty fingers, and the four different horns that he just heard in succession means that they'll be at least 25 minutes on the road. 

but paul's sitting right in front of him, with his ridiculously long arms, asking him, what's that right there? oh, nice, nice and what about that? and alvaro can't find it in him to close his eyes. 

madrid has lots of faces, and this one may be just new. 

 

 

cristiano ronaldo scores in a header that equalizes the game and puts real upfront fifteen minutes in and juve ceases their breathing. 

it’s like battling with the waves, knowing that it’s only a matter of time until you drown. juve’s arms are getting heavy. 

until the santiago bernabeu's gets swallowed whole, and alive, by the italian crowd. they want, they want it so bad, and fuck yeah, they want it more. 

with air on the lungs, the bianconeri start running a bit faster, but iker casillas is a king. this is his reign. 

alvaro is a bit lightheaded. he’s awake now, but it feels delicate, like he needs to be careful or he will pass out. 

paul pogba is subbed after the half time, and it's like he never went away, like there was a space shaped just like his body, waiting for his legs, and he owns the entire midfield, the ones in black-and-white and the ones in white, all of them, moving around him.

if there wasn't this incessant thick inside their heads, if the time wasn't running out, if the ball just stopped being stubborn and got in, then they all really should stop and watch for a little bit. 

and it's almost like they do, at some point. 

sergio ramos is careless, paul is brilliant, and alvaro, well, alvaro kicks the ball with more force than technique, but with everything he has nonetheless, that’s just how he does it these days, it seems, but it's a once in a lifetime kind of ball, and despite what everybody thinks those don't come with a slow motion set, or you know, duh, time to think at all at that, either you take the shot or you don't. 

he does take the shot. 

for a moment, they're all helpless and in suspension, like crystallized bugs, the twenty-two of them.

the moment is broken, a few seconds later, by the linesman. 

 

 

here's how the short version goes: 

alvaro gets to the ball and iker doesn't, but it's not enough. 

pirlo cries a lot, and gigi comforts everybody like he held that one trophy he never really touched a thousand times before.

 

 

alvaro can't keep track of the thousand pats on the shoulder he receives. isco doesn't linger, but invites him to go partying with them, in an apologetic kind of sound, like he knows it's a dick move but just can't help himself. he's being isco and it's the best he can do. 

alvaro can’t hold it against him. 

"it's still us, you know, your team. you're welcome to it." he says, as he steps further way. 

"not really tough," alvaro responds, holding his bag close to his body, before he makes his way to the bus. "it’s been some time, now, c’mon."

there’s not bite on it. it’s the truth. 

he's the last one out, but he can't wait to get home. 

 

 

it's terribly late when they land, and they're sad and sleepy and also collectively pissed when claudio insists they should climb all the way up to the roof to indulge whatever fake deep shit he thinks they need right now. 

alvaro steps outside, and steels himself on the rail so he won't fall out. 

the chilly, pre-dawn wind hits his face nonstop, but the only thing that really strikes him, is the most beautiful view waiting for them just outside. 

they just lost the game of the season but looking at the glistening lights you wouldn't know. 

fernando strongly grips his hoody as a reflex, leonardo swears out loud, and paul holds his pulse as they stumble into each other. everyone wants to see it better. 

they can't look away.

 

 

alvaro should be packing and there’s a ton of calls to make, but when june 6th comes around he’s brooding on his boxers feeling stupid and betrayed on his old raul jersey. if this is how his mom always feels, he now understands why she hates el clasicos. 

maria sends him a bunch of laughing emojis when he tells her he’s considering not going anywhere and watching the game solo. if she didn’t want him to be alone, she should be here. this is ridiculous. 

as to his other best mate, isco actually sent him tickets like the infuriating cunt he is. alvaro actually considered ripping it apart before reminding himself just how adult and mature he is. he gave them to maria and this is how she repays him – laughing at him all the way from berlin. maybe they should just be best friends themselves and leave him alone. 

when paul knocks on his door, he’s not even a bit impressed. a bit embarrassed by the state he’s in, sure, but that’s why he’s got the hoody on, right? anyways, paul pogba should get a life and let alvaro wastes his by his own accord. 

paul considers him. 

“i think we should talk.” he sounds serious, and alvaro suddenly needs to sit down. what is happening? he mouths to himself, a bit desperately, as he gives his back to paul. they should be fine now. they’re okay. 

he sits on the furthest edge of the sofa, trying to put some distance between them, just to have paul sit on the glass table, right in front of him, arms braced on his knees. 

alvaro feels cornered on his own house.

“i was facetiming francisco and raphael three days ago and–”

“excuse me, i don’t think i heard you right. you were what?” and that’s what it takes to break the tension. paul sighs. 

“i was talking with rapha and you buddy crashed it. can i go on?”

alvaro considers. that seems about right. he spreads his legs, more relaxed, and nods. 

“anyways, they told me I should speak with antoine, right? I was a bit skeptical at first, but despite his company, rapha is my dude, so you know, i ended up texting grizi yesterday and we had the longest conversation, deep shit, my fingers are hurting and all.”

“why didn’t you just call him?”

paul huffs a laugh and touches his knee, and there you go. alvaro is tense again. 

“not the point. but, huh, grizi was telling me about his nice spanish dude he's dating, saul, and how they got lost in translation for a bit. so there’s a possibility that i was too embarrassed to say what i had to say out loud.”

he looks right into alvaro’s eyes as he says it and get’s stil. it’s quick, very quick, and violent. if realization was a ball, alvaro would’ve get hit on the face.

he kisses paul, then, almost falling off the sofa on his hurry. paul holds him. 

“you don’t have to say a thing to me.” he actually whispers, because he’s actually sixteen inside and this is important, this means something. 

they kiss some more.

“but it be very nice if you did, though.” 

paul pushes him off of him, but alvaro grins at him until he grins back. 

“i like you.” he says, finally, with finality. “aren’t you tired?” 

and the thing is, yeah, damn right alvaro is tired. bone deep, bones aching, bones tingling tired. he’s 22, though. they’re postmodern millennials with too much money and too much space on the house. this is how you do it. this is how you fall in love. 

alvaro hums, mostly to himself.

“i like you too.” 

 

 

there’s a knock on the door. 

“paul pogba! why the fuck did you told me to drive you here and keep the car on if you were going to mess around with you boyfriend? what the actual fuck? call a fucking uber next time! we’re fucking late and I need to be there early to choose the perfect sofa spot! tell alvaro to hurry up!” 

they’ve never seen patrice so mad outside the pitch and they get up so quick that alvaro almost forgets to change his shirt. and put on some pants. 

 

 

“the madridista is here!” martin screams as soon as he opens the door, and alvaro hides his face on the space in-between paul’s shoulder blades. 

patrice stomps ahead of them very rudely, if alvaro says so, and they make their way to the kitchen, holding into each other’s elbows. 

“is it official now?” claudio asks, eyes soft, as he refills glasses. he’s such a mom.

“you’re such a mom.” leonardo says, as if he isn’t benefiting from it, since it’s his house and he’s, technically, the actual host and shoul be going through the motions marchisio is fulfilling for him. 

paul makes a gagging noise. 

“official, what the hell, that gross.” 

alvaro rolls his eyes and punches him on the shoulder.

“gross was the way you insisted on sitting on the back with me making us go through a whole ride of patrice's remarks of how we were making him feel like an actual uber driver and in detail just how insensive of us that was.”

the french promptly, and skillfully, changes the subject. 

 

 

as soon as alvaro steps on the living room, the bunch of assholes with whom he shares a team, starts screaming visca el barça. 

it’s disgusting and alvaro never felt so personally victimized. 

he turns to paul, his – oh my god – boyfriend, in suspicious pledge. the younger boy keeps his mouth shut. 

of course, a few minutes later, when everybody has quieted down, and they’re trying to push each other around without actually doing, a bunch of guys trying to get comfortable, paul says, innocently enough: 

“you know, i’ve been thinking of learning spanish. proper team, that one” he points to messi and his band of merry tricksters lining up beside real. “and rumor has it, they think the same of me. would you help me, boo?”

this time, when alvaro punches him, the whole room is whopping on his favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when we actually thought paul was coming to spain. lols
> 
> also, i miss alvaro like a limb already. (i'm a culé. so...................)
> 
> anyways if yall wanna complain abt my life choises w me im on tumblr @ bruccwayne oversharing as usual
> 
> thx for reading

**Author's Note:**

> ok, first things first
> 
> \- isco and alvaro didnt grown up together lol i dont even know why i wrote it like that but thats how it went out?  
>   
> \- maria pombos cameo may seem a little out of it but. i dont know. shes the most beautiful woman on earth, she demanded it from me. (alvaros new gf is really cute too, tho)  
>   
> \- pogba characterization is all over the place? yikes. im sorry, honestly. he did what he wanted to both alvaro and i.  
>   
> \- marc barta actually had bigger plot into this. i was planning a spin off, and everything. now my baby boy is off to germany and he's going to miss neymar a lot - so maybe ill still come around to write that sequel.  
>   
> \- oh. right. almost forgot. i make sort of a joke? about saul/oliver/la rojita at the start bc this fic was lowkey inspired by for goodness sake let us be young, a beautiful fanfic that has been deleted and i wanted to kinda of make a reference to it. the main pairing was saul niguez/antoine griezzman and it was lovely and funny and perfect and ughhh (theres a bigger reference to it on the second chapter bc i couldnt help it).  
>   
> \- this might b a love letter to someone other than alvaro, paul or juve. happy birthday u. hope u still like this  
>   
> the second and last chapter is coming right up but it's much more shorter and fast paced and so iNNACURATE bc guess what i wrote it even before the actual real madrid x juve games played out so i thought real @ the finals was a sure thing. no comment..................................
> 
> thx for reading this shit. i love yall


End file.
